<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Expert Degenerate by LMT</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26522368">Expert Degenerate</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/LMT/pseuds/LMT'>LMT</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Cobra Kai (Web Series)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 04:34:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,091</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26522368</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/LMT/pseuds/LMT</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Johnny’s seen his share of rough nights.  But Robby bringing home Daniel LaRusso’s drunk daughter? That is a whole new level of messy.  Good thing he knows how to hold hair.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Johnny Lawrence &amp; Samantha LaRusso</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>107</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>A/N:  Picks up when Robby brings Sam back to Johnny’s place drunk.  The end of season 2 was too much of a downer for me.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>And, I think taking care of drunk people is frequently hilarious.</strong>
</p><hr/><p>He opens the door and it’s not Carmen.  It’s his <em>son.</em>  With Daniel LaRusso’s <em>daughter.</em>  And Robby is holding her up, while she sways glassy-eyed and doesn’t even think to say hello.</p><p>“Hi, Dad,” Robby says, sort of hopefully.</p><p>“Shit,” he sighs.  He doesn’t have to ask any questions.  “Come on in.”</p><p>He watches Robby lead the girl inside and half-carry her to the couch, and settle her down.</p><p>“Robby,” she slurs.  Pawing for his wrist.  “Where are we?”</p><p>“It’s okay,” Robby says, smooth and reassuring and coherent.  “We’re at my dad’s.   We can crash here, it’s okay.  Everything’s fine.  I have a room here.”  He looks up.  “Right?”</p><p>“Yeah.  Down the hall.”  He takes a deep breath and does his best Responsible Adult.  “You sleep there – <em>by yourself</em>.  She takes my room.  I’ll take the couch.”</p><p>Robby cocks his head. </p><p>Playing dumb?  Then he will elaborate.  “Nothing happens with a girl that trashed under my roof, do you understand me?”  It pisses him off that he should have to explain this.  “I don’t roll that way.  Neither should you.  Not even to LaRusso’s brat.”</p><p>The sound of her name makes her turn her drunk head.  “What?”</p><p>“Nothing, kid,” he says without looking at her, “You just take it easy, you’re good here.”  His attention is still on Robby.  Who is definitely sober. </p><p>There are only two guys who leave a party cold sober to take a wasted girl home: a torch-carrying loser, or something much worse.  And he knows Robby’s not a loser.  “What are you carrying a drunk girl to your room for?”</p><p>Robby’s eyes go wide.  “Dad, it’s not like that.”</p><p>Please.  That innocent, imploring look can disarm every adult in the universe <em>except Johnny</em>.  He used to use that look himself.</p><p>He waits.</p><p>Finally Robby starts talking.  “I swear I’m not going to touch her,” he insists.  “She’s a nice girl and I wouldn’t do that to her.  Or Mr. LaRusso.  I promise.”  He’s firm. </p><p>Johnny frowns – it sounds pretty believable, but he knows what he knows.  “Then what the hell are you doing leaving a party sober?”</p><p>Robby looks away.  Hisses out a breath that sounds resentful.  “When I start drinking sometimes I don’t stop,” he mutters at last.  “So today I just didn’t start.  That’s the truth.”</p><p>It’s a relief to hear that his son isn’t a creep.  (And is a more responsible drunk than he is!).  But it still doesn’t explain the <em>whole </em>whole story.  “If you’re just looking for a place to crash and not somewhere to get laid, then why not your mom’s?”  Robby doesn’t even keep clothes here.</p><p>“<em>Because Mom’s in rehab!</em>” Robby bursts out.  “Okay?”</p><p>Ah.</p><p>“Okay,” Johnny says at last.  He knows there should be more.  What would a good father say?  <em>I’m sorry your mom is in rehab - </em>is that a thing?  “Uh… I’m glad you came to my place.”</p><p>Robby huffs like he doesn’t believe it.</p><p>“I <em>am</em>!”</p><p>“Right.”  Robby smiles.  “Well I knew you’d be cooler about it than Mr. LaRusso, anyway.”  The smile disappears.  “I could never take Sam to his house looking like that.  As it is he’s going to kill us for staying out all night.”</p><p>LaRusso.  Right.  LaRusso will flip.  He glances at the girl.  “Yeah.  We’ll get her squared away.  Return her in the morning, in one piece.  That has to count for something, right?”</p><p>“I hope so.  I’ll tell him it was me drunk and not her, and I asked her to bring me here.  I hope he doesn’t think… what <em>you</em> thought.”</p><p>He winces.  It’s the obvious thing to think.  “Well now I think everything’s okay,” he says.  “And I’m putting you in separate rooms, and that should be good enough even for Douchebag Daniel LaRusso.  Okay?”</p><p>Robby nods.  “Thanks, Dad.”</p><p>“Sure.”  He hesitates.  Then: <em>fuck it.</em>  He gathers the kid in for a big hug, which seems to surprise him, but he doesn’t fight it.  Awesome.</p><hr/><p>An hour later he’s rethinking his assessment.  He’s had plenty of time to sober up by now; the restaurant feels like a decade ago as he sits here holding Samantha LaRusso’s hair out of the puke-filled toilet while she heaves.  Robby’s peacefully asleep, and he’s here.  None of this is awesome at all.</p><p>“That’s right, let it out,” he says, for the thousandth time, coddling as nicely as he can, for Robby’s sake.  “You’re okay.”</p><p>“Don’t tell my dad,” she begs, also for the thousandth time.</p><p>“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”  He flushes for her.  He swigs water – they’ve long since run out of juice and milk and everything else in his fridge (except beer, which will only set her off again), then reaches over with his free hand to refill the cup at the sink.  “Here – drink.”</p><p>She groans.  “Again?  Do I have to?”  Her head lolls forward until he’s almost holding her up by the hair.  He gives it a tug to make sure she’s still awake, and she hardly seems to notice.</p><p>“Yeah – you have to.”</p><p>“I can’t.”</p><p>He’s getting sick of this.  He was nowhere <em>near </em>this pathetic at her age – and none of his Cobras would be this pathetic either.  Even the girls.</p><p>That thought – he’s <em>sure </em>about it – makes him change tactics.  “What kind of loser <em>can’t drink water</em>?” he snaps suddenly.</p><p>She jumps.  Straightens up enough that he can let go of her without fearing she’ll fall in.  He opens the under-sink cabinet and fishes out his lost &amp; found – it’s got some panties, assorted makeup, a keyring he’s still mystified how the chick is living without… and a couple of hair ties.  He picks blonde curls off one til it’s relatively clean, and gives her a ponytail.</p><p>“Hey.”  He slaps the toilet tank to get her attention, and she jumps again.  He raises his voice so she won’t go back to sleep.  “<em>Are you a loser, Miss LaRusso</em>?”</p><p>“Huh?  No.”  She sounds properly offended.</p><p>“Good.  Then drink this fucking water like I told you to.  Here.”  He shoves it into her hand.</p><p>It works better than coddling – she glares at him, tilts her head back and starts to chug.  Excellent. </p><p>He doesn’t realize he’s chanting under his breath until she lowers the cup and gives him a look of drunken contempt.  “We don’t say <em>chug</em>,” she says.  “That’s so, like, not.  We just say <em>drink.</em>”</p><p>He can live with that.  “Okay, fine, whatever.  <em>Drink.  Drink.  Drink.</em>”  Until she finishes the cup.</p><p>She gasps for breath and wipes her mouth.  “Okay?” she demands, both hands braced on the toilet bowl.  (Thank God he cleaned it before his date, just in case.  Twenty-four hours ago it had been too filthy to even puke in.).</p><p>“Okay.   Keep it down for five minutes and then you can go to bed.”   Nothing’s stayed down yet, but he thinks they’re getting closer.</p><p>But then he sees her body jerking; she’s about to heave again.  “<em>No</em>,” he barks.</p><p>She covers her mouth with her hand.  “I know, I know,” she says through her fingers.</p><p>“Water is <em>good </em>for you.”</p><p>“I know.”</p><p>“It’s <em>stupid </em>to puke up water!”</p><p>“I <em>know</em>!”</p><p>“Are you going to let your body be stupid?”</p><p>“Oh my god, shut up!”  She sounds like every bratty teenage girl who has ever come to his classes.</p><p>And he bulls over her like he bulls over the rest of them.  “<em>Miss LaRusso</em>!” It’s deafeningly loud in the tiny bathroom.  “I said: <em>Are you going to let your body be stupid?</em>”</p><p>She <em>wails </em>in frustration and anger.  Finally cooperates – but shouting, even louder than he was.  “<em>No!  Okay?</em>”</p><p>“<em>Good!  Are you going to puke up that water?</em>”</p><p>“<em>No!</em>”</p><p>“Good!”  But he can see her shoulders shaking as her body prepares to retch.  “Swallow.  Don’t you dare.  Swallow <em>now</em>!”</p><p>She gulps on nothing.</p><p>“Again!  Keep swallowing.”</p><p>She obeys.  After a while, she goes still.  He watches like a hawk, but her stupid stomach seems to have stopped convulsing.  “Good,” he says, when he’s sure.  “I think you’re actually keeping it down this time.  Nice.” He stands up.  (And gasps.  It hurts.  He is much too old to be kneeling on tile floors all night.).   “I’m going to get you something to wear,” he says.  “Stay here.  Do not puke any more, you hear me?”</p><p>“Yeah,” she mumbles.  “I hear you.”</p><p>He stands in his room and considers.  Dressing her in the shirt he’s got on – the one LaRusso saw him wearing tonight – would be the ultimate power move, except it’s a button-down and clearly not for sleeping.  It’ll be obvious that he’s provoking on purpose, which makes it less cool.  Same goes for all the kid-sized Cobra Kai gear he’s got lying around.  He opens his own t-shirt drawer instead, and pulls out one of his reds, something recognizably <em>his</em> to make sure that LaRusso hits the ceiling. </p><p>He hopes the wife washes and folds it for him afterwards.  Maybe he’ll stop by the house and collect it in person.  After tonight he is definitely entitled.</p><hr/><p>
  <strong>TBC.</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>One more part to this, where Samantha returns the favor.  It's all written and will probably be up tomorrow.  Let me know what you think!  And, if you know of any other fics about Johnny and drunk!Samantha, let me know.  I think that's a set of characters with great potential!</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>(This is why my Johnny/Daniel fic has been on hold a couple of days; I've been busy with this.  Planning to be back to regularly scheduled programming on that one soon.)</strong>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Seven Weeks Later.</strong>
</p><p>Samantha wakes up in the middle of the night to a crash – and her father cursing, loud and slurred.</p><p>“<em>Shhh!</em>” Her mother’s hiss.  “<em>Daniel</em>!”</p><p>“Sorry – I’m sorry – shit-.”</p><p>“It’s okay – we can get a new one.  Come on.  Honey.  You need to shower.  You reek like a frat party.”</p><p>Her dad’s <em>drunk</em>.  Very drunk.   For a minute it’s funny, until she remembers how much grief he gave Robby for (supposedly) getting hammered at the end-of-summer party this year.  During the first explosion Robby had to apologize and grovel and swear off alcohol and even tear up.  Then, for weeks, he had to field countless, <em>endless </em>disappointed sighs and lectures.  It’s done such a number on him that she’s beginning to worry he’s taken it to heart and finally forgotten who the drunk one had actually been.</p><p>Robby took a real bullet for her on that, and it wasn’t fair – and it <em>especially</em> wasn’t fair if her dad was going to go and do the same thing himself not two months later.</p><p>She wants to rub his face in this tomorrow.  But she knows she won’t be able to; her dad’s selective memory will tell him that he wasn’t <em>really </em>that trashed, that she’s exaggerating, and <em>she’ll </em>probably be the one to end up in trouble.</p><p>Unless she has proof.  Actual video proof.</p><p>So, phone in hand, she slips out of bed and into a robe and slippers.  Sneaks out of her room and down the hall.</p><p>Her parents are in their suite, still talking… but the shower’s running.  Ugh – she’s not going to walk in on him <em>naked.</em></p><p>Before she can decide what to do next, she hears another commotion.  Downstairs.  This time it’s the sounds of someone bumping around in the kitchen - the hollow <em>clunk</em> of kicking against the island cabinets, the clanging of pots.</p><p>Are they being <em>robbed</em>?  She creeps down the stairs, phone up, all ready to call 9-1-1.  Also ready to fight, if she has to.  Free hand clenched into a fist.</p><p>But when she gets to the kitchen, she relaxes right away.  The person rummaging around in the fridge is a blond she recognizes, even from behind.  “Mr. Lawrence?”</p><p>He turns fast – too fast, and stumbles.  Has to catch himself on the refrigerator door.  He squints at her.  Nods in recognition.  “Miss LaRusso.”  He salutes her, sloppily.  “How’ve you been?”</p><p>It’s great that he’s drunk himself.  Otherwise, it would be so embarrassing to see him again after last time – when she ate, and threw up, everything in his apartment.  When she cried on his floor and made him hold her hair.  (When she started stripping down in front of him til he yelled <em>whoa</em> and fled the room.  But that’s <em>so</em> embarrassing that she keeps telling herself it must have been just a bad dream.).</p><p>“Good.  I’m good,” she says.  Pretend it never happened?  No, she can’t do that; she already feels too guilty for the pretending she’s done at home.  Maybe it will feel good to own up to <em>someone, </em>at least.  “Much better than last time.  Thanks, by the way.  For taking care of me.  I drank way too much.  And I’m really sorry.  I know I was… a lot of trouble.”</p><p>“Don’t worry about it.”  He reaches up and rubs his nose.  “I think it healed straight.”</p><p>Dear God.  So it was true, what Miguel told her.  She’d tried to believe he must be making it up.  “I am so sorry about that.”  <em>Broke his nose when he asked for his shirt back</em>.  “My dad… can be…”</p><p>“Psh.”  He waves her off.  “Believe me, I know.  But I absolutely deserved this one.”  He laughs.</p><p>“Still, I owe you,” she says.  “And Robby.  He took the blame for me.  Or my dad would’ve grounded me til I’m a hundred.”</p><p>He <em>psh</em>’s again.  “Grounding kids is lame.  Your dad’s a tool.”</p><p>And yet… apparently he spent tonight <em>drinking </em>with him.  She looks the question at him.</p><p>“I’m trying to help him be <em>less</em> lame,” he explains.  “For Robby’s sake.  No kid should have to hear that shit day in day out.”  He shrugs.  “But it’s a lot of work.”</p><p>He’s trying to make friends with her dad to loosen him up for Robby’s sake.   That’s… really sweet.  She almost says something, but she realizes in time that he’ll just yell at her for being soft.  Instead she gives him a big grin.  “Looks like you did a good job tonight.  He sounds pretty gone.”</p><p>“Yeah.  I brought him here and gave him to your mom.  Then I was looking for the door.  But I found the fridge instead.”</p><p>“Uh huh.”  She remembers how bare his kitchen was, and she owes him.  “You want me to get you something to eat?  Soak up whatever you drank?”</p><p>He laughs, recognizing the offer.  “What goes around comes around, huh?”</p><p>“Yup.  Sit.”  She invites him to the table with a gesture and goes to the fridge herself.  “What do you want?”</p><p>“Whatever there is.  I mostly eat out of boxes.  Don’t tell your dad.  He’ll give me shit.”</p><p>Boxes.  Hm.  “Oh – we have frozen waffles.  Is that okay?”</p><p>“Leggo my eggo.”</p><p>She figures that means yes.</p><p>While she waits for the toaster to pop she brings him a glass of orange juice.  “What did you guys do tonight?” she asks while he houses it.</p><p>He pauses long enough to answer: “Did I ask <em>you</em> that?” before continuing to drink. </p><p>Good point.  “Okay, okay, I know,” she concedes.   But she can’t help trying once more.  “It’s just… my <em>dad</em>.  He <em>never</em>…”</p><p>“Yeah.”  He snorts.  “What a pussy.”</p><p>It annoys her when people use <em>girl </em>and <em>pussy </em>as pejoratives.  She sniffs.  “You smell like shots.”</p><p>That surprises him.  “What?”</p><p>“I smell liquor, not beer, and no mixers.  I smell a lot of it, and you’re dehydrated.”</p><p>“Am not.”</p><p>She picks up his empty juice glass and waves it around, smug.  “I’ll get you a refill.”</p><p>By the time she brings more juice and some waffles, he’s propped up with one elbow on the table.  He looks like he’s fading.  She makes small talk as he eats, wondering if she can get any embarrassing stories out of him.  Her dad must have done <em>something </em>ridiculous over the course of the night.</p><p>When he’s all done she clears the table for him – it’s the least she can do, after the cleaning he had to do for <em>her</em>.  (She first puked in his bathroom <em>standing.</em>  Got it all down the back of his toilet tank.  He didn’t even yell at her for that.  He just put her on her knees – by sweeping her feet out from under her – held her hair out of the way and aimed her himself.)</p><p>“C’n I give you a piece of life advice?” he slurs, while she’s rinsing his plate in the sink.</p><p>Life advice – from<em> this guy</em>?  “Uh, sure.”  The way her dad tells it – and Robby – the only life advice Mr. Lawrence should have for anyone is <em>don’t turn out like me.</em></p><p>“Hold on to this.”  He gestures between them.</p><p><em>Huh?  </em>How drunk <em>is </em>he? </p><p>He pauses, like he’s replaying his words, and then hangs his head laughing.  “No – I mean… this.”  This time he gestures to the room at large, a circular gesture, like ordering a round at a bar.</p><p>She turns the water off and returns to the table.  He’s still making no sense.  “This… what?”</p><p>“This.  You.  Guy comes home plastered,” he explains, slow and careful, as if he’s determined to make sense no matter how plastered he is, “And you make him food, and you ask how was the bar?  No bitching about how it’s so irresponsible.  Not all pissed he woke you up.”  He shakes his head.  “You are gonna be dreamgirl material someday, if you keep that up.  Seriously.  Good job.”</p><p>Her cheeks are <em>burning</em>.  She’s fielded her share of compliments, from adults as well as guys her own age, but that one just about takes the cake.  “Thanks,” she says, kind of laughing.  “I’ll remember that.”</p><p>He looks satisfied.</p><p><em>Now.  He likes you.  Go for it.</em>  She bites her lip.  “Listen… Can you tell me <em>one </em>stupid thing my dad did tonight that I can hold over him?”</p><p>He laughs and ducks his head.</p><p>What – <em>shy</em>?  “Come on,” she begs.  Reaches out and lays a hand on his forearm.  Shakes him gently.  “I won’t go overboard with it.  I’ll only torture him a <em>little tiny bit.</em>”  It’s not clear he’s even registered that she is touching him, so, she digs in with her nails.</p><p>Finally he sighs.  Sits back so she has to let go of him.  “I had to carry him from the car,” he says.  “Picked him up like a Disney princess and brought him up the walk.  You guys have one of those doorbell cameras?”</p><p>They do.  And now it has footage of her dad being bridal-carried by his worst enemy.  “Oh my god, <em>thank you.</em>  Seriously.  That is amazing.”</p><p>“No problem.”  He looks around.  “Okay.  Door?”</p><p>“Oh!  Yeah, totally.  Come on.” </p><p>But when he stands up, he has to grab the table for balance.  She can see immediately that he’s not okay.  “Hey, um.  Mr. Lawrence… you can’t drive like this.”</p><p>“Watch me.”</p><p>She will not let him speed off into a drunk driving accident.  From last time she knows that tough love is his jam, so she tries that. “Yeah – only now, the last couple of shots you did is just hitting you,” she snaps.  “Look at you.  You’re probably going to pass out.”   But when his eyes narrow she realizes right away that she’ll be no match for him if he gets mad, so she switches gears.  Tries friendliness instead.  “Hey.  Seriously.  You want to crash here?”</p><p>“<em>No.</em>”</p><p>Maybe he doesn’t, but he’s in no shape to decide.  “Okay,” she soothes, “Okay, fine, that’s your call.  But how about you at least sit a couple more minutes and sober up?  There’s a couch right in the den here.  Just hang out for a sec until you’re good to go.  Just a couple of minutes.”  <em>Yeah, right.  </em>She reaches out and takes his hand, tugs him.</p><p>He’s too drunk to smell a rat, and he lets her pull him along.  “I mean-… look, I’ll be okay in a second.”</p><p>“Uh-huh.”  <em>Right.</em>  “Come on.”   At the couch she hesitates – if she has him put his feet up as-is her mother will kill her for the dirt.  But if she tries to get him to take his shoes off, he’ll realize what she’s up to.</p><p>Fine – she knows what to do.  “C’mon.”  She sits down without letting go of his hand, so that he crashes, almost crushing her.  She shoves him into position and he cooperates, until his head is in her lap and his legs dangle over the far armrest.  “There.  You’ll be good soon; we got some food into you.”</p><p>He recognizes that too, and laughs softly.  Eyes closed already.  “I am a great fucking teacher.”</p><hr/><p>She wakes up to a sore neck.  And the sound of birds.</p><p>She shifts and realizes she’s sitting up, head flopped back and one arm folded over her face – against light.   When she moves it hurts; she’s been sleeping this way for a long time.</p><p>Her other hand is resting on something that’s rising and falling, deep and steady.  Somebody’s chest.   Robby’s dad’s.</p><p>She freezes.  What was she <em>thinking</em>, last night?  She should have just let him risk his life on the roads; he’s a very experienced drunk; everything would probably have been fine.   This, on the other hand, is <em>bad.</em>  What if her father wakes up?  The fallout from last time, when all she did was borrow a t-shirt, will be <em>nothing </em>compared to what happens when he finds out she invited Johnny Lawrence to <em>sleep over in their house, </em>and spent the night cozied up with him.  She has to get him gone as soon as humanly, physically possible.</p><p>But then she looks down.  He’s asleep in her lap, where she put him.  This <em>belligerent asshole</em> (as her father says) is lying helpless and unguarded and right where she told him to be.</p><p>If she can take charge of this guy, she can do anything.   She stops panicking. </p><p><em>You got this.  </em>She looks and listens.  The house is quiet.  And Mr. Lawrence is still completely asleep.  <em>Dad must be too</em>.</p><p>“Hey.”  She tries jiggling him a little with her knees.  “Hey.  Psst.  Wake up.”</p><p>Nothing.  He just snores.</p><p>So she shakes harder.  “Mr. Lawrence.  Hey.”  When that fails too, she leans down right into his face and hisses:  “<em>Johnny.</em>”</p><p>That wakes him – suddenly.   He starts to say something, surprised and <em>loud, </em>so she covers his mouth fast with her hand.  “<em>Shhh</em>.”  When she can tell he’s fully awake and recognizes her, she lets go.  “You fell asleep,” she whispers.  “It’s morning now.  You want to get going before my parents wake up and kill me?” </p><p>She lifts behind his neck so she can crawl out from under him; he curls to help her.  Once she’s out of the way he puts his feet to the floor and sits up.  Slowly, carefully.  </p><p>He doesn’t look great.  “You okay?”</p><p>“Royal hangover.”  He sounds raspy and horrible.  He beckons her down.  “C’mere.”</p><p>She ducks under one of his arms so he can lean on her shoulders, and helps him stand.  God, he’s heavy.  Despite all the muscle she can feel around his waist where she’s holding, he’s like a sack of wet cement.</p><p>Once he’s up and steadied he releases her.  “I’m good.  Let’s go.”</p><p>She giggles a little, nervous and lightheaded, as she leads him through the house.  He’s walking more or less a straight line, but he still looks terrible.  “Are you sure you’re okay?” she whispers one more time, in the front hall.</p><p>“Yeah.”  He’s squinting through what she imagines must be an unbearable headache.  “Thanks.”  She opens the door for him and he shields his eyes against the light. </p><p>“Hey,” she says, sudden inspiration.  Reaches into the basket by the door and grabs him a pair of sunglasses. </p><p>He looks much less awful once he puts them on.  (He almost looks cool!).  “Thanks,” he says again.  He salutes, like last night except less loopy and more tired, and heads out.</p><p>She watches him go down the walk.  She definitely needs to get to the doorbell camera before her parents wake up.</p><hr/><p>
  <strong>The End.</strong>
</p><p>
  <b>All done.  Let me know what you thought of this!</b>
</p><p>
  <b>And, shoutout to my friend J, who did once get puke behind my toilet tank, where it stank for days until I could figure out where the stink was coming from.  God, I miss those parties :-p</b>
</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>